


in the dark where everything luminous starts

by metonymy



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Hatred, Unsafe Sex, appearance issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metonymy/pseuds/metonymy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur isn't comfortable with his body, or with being naked. Ariadne might just change his mind. </p><p>(With sex, obviously.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the dark where everything luminous starts

Arthur doesn't like being naked. At least not for much longer than it takes to shower and dry off. He could resort to cliche and metaphor. Clothing as armor, the vest as breastplate and the cufflinks as vambraces, protecting himself against the world. He could claim that it's about making sure he's never caught off guard, being hypervigilant about the threats that always follow a man in their line of work, never being caught with his pants down.

But underneath all of that, the fine linen and the sweaters and the vests and the tailored jackets, is the simple truth: Arthur doesn't like feeling exposed. He doesn't like remembering being teased about his ribs showing, about his flat butt, about looking like a toothpick. He doesn't look like that anymore, but that doesn't change his mind. 

At first he's pretty sure Ariadne thinks of it as a kink, or maybe as a byproduct of him just being too eager to get his hands and his mouth on her. Which isn't untrue. It wouldn't even occur to him to strip down before peeling her shirt off and stripping her out of her trousers and diving in between her thighs. And she doesn't mind. She just grabs at his collar and his shoulders and pulls him in closer, till all he can see and smell and breathe is her. He doesn't mind that his shirt is getting hopelessly wrinkled underneath him as he traces over her folds with his tongue, as he sucks gently at her clit and then harder until she writhes. When she's gasped out her climax, Arthur licks and kisses at her gently. 

"Come here," she manages finally, pulling at his shoulder again. He obliges, clambering up beside her, shoes dangling off the edge of the bed, and she pulls him in for a sloppy kiss. She's still got her bra on, which can't possibly be comfortable. 

She reaches up to start undoing his collar, and he very nearly stops her, his hand twitching against her hip. 

"Promise I won't pop your buttons," she says, smiling. She seems so calm. Arthur can't imagine that she would judge him, mock him, say anything cruel. But those old ghosts whisper in his ear and he can't silence them this easily. He winds up distracting her again, using his hands and his mouth, and finally she gives up and just pulls at his belt buckle and he can manage that well enough and it's not a total loss of an evening. 

But he knows Ariadne, knows she never gives up on anything that easily, and even if he went back to his hotel that first night he should have known she wouldn't let him slip away again. 

He takes off his sweater while he's cooking dinner with her a few nights later, rolling up his shirt sleeves to keep them out of the way, and that much is fine, he's controlled it, that's okay. He even loosens his own tie, undoing the top button. He's not surprised when they wind up making out on her couch and Ariadne's fingers sneak under the top of his collar, resting against the back of his neck, holding him close as she kisses him long and deep.

None of that stops him from tensing up when she slides her hand around to the front of his throat and eases another button open. 

Her hand stills and she pulls away, just enough to see him. "Is this - I thought you wanted this," she says, barely more than a whisper. Arthur tries to lean in for another kiss, to distract her, but she stays just out of his way. "I want to see you," Ariadne says in that same low voice. She must be able to feel his pulse beating in his throat, her fingertips right against the vein. She's close enough to kill him. Or at least do some real damage.

And that's the thought that makes him breathe out, closing his eyes, and Arthur tips his chin up. Maybe his fingers tighten a little in the fabric of her shirt as she pulls his tie loose and undoes another button, but that doesn't stop her. (He doesn't want her to stop.) Then Ariadne leans close, her head almost tucked under his chin, as she kisses the triangle of exposed skin, and Arthur exhales in a rush. 

Her face stays that close, easing open each button, nuzzling against the soft cotton of his undershirt, her cheek pressed over his heart as she pulls his shirttails free, and then she leans back up and slides her hands over his waist and tucks her face into the crook of his neck and makes a little happy noise. She kisses his neck, her mouth warm and wet against his skin. Then there's the scrape of teeth and Arthur almost jumps, but he doesn't push her away. His hands slide down her back, smoothing her shirt, then sneaking under the hem to rest against her warm skin. She's always warm against him, but Arthur's shivering, shuddering as she works over his neck, his skin tingling as she finally pulls away and reaches for his wrists.

It's easier for him to undo the cufflinks, but Ariadne gets her hands on him as soon as he drops them on her coffee table, pushing the shirt from his shoulders, fingers tracing over the subtle line of muscle on his arms. Her hands are so small against his biceps and there's a look of wonder on her face. Not at all what he was expecting. When she squeezes a little and he catches her eye they both start laughing, and somewhere in there his shirt comes all the way off and Ariadne's crawling into his lap. She pulls off her own blouse and tosses it away, and now she's in a camisole and he's in his undershirt and it shouldn't make that much of a difference but he can feel the heat of her that much closer when she leans in to kiss him. 

He feels like he should still be nervous, but something about the look in her eyes and the laughter and the way she feels is melting all that reserve, is making him ignore those years and years of fear and shame, and if his stomach contracts for a moment when she goes for his undershirt he's determined enough now to force his hands to stay on her back. Until the fabric gets caught around his armpits, and then they're both laughing again as he lets go of her so she can pull it over his shoulders. Arthur's pretty sure he's never laughed this much when he's been intimate with - well, anyone. But something about Ariadne makes it joyous, not just a frenzy of lust and single-minded desire.

Of course, the way she looks at his bare chest is still pretty damned lustful, her fingers tracing down the center and tripping over his stomach. Ariadne skims over the skin, catches some of the trail of dark hair below his navel and tugs gently, and Arthur whimpers. Her grin is sudden and wicked and Arthur is starting to think he might have gotten himself into trouble he can't get out of for once.

But then her mouth closes over one of his nipples and he whimpers again and his hands are in her hair, and he's barely aware that Ariadne's undoing his belt because it just feels so fucking good to have her tongue flickering over that sensitive little knot of skin, and somehow he's lying down on the couch with Ariadne sprawled over him and she's pulling the last inches of his belt free and tossing it onto the floor. She crawls up and her hair falls down around their faces and onto his face, and he blows the locks away with a puff of air and she closes her eyes and smiles. 

"I have to tell you something," she murmurs, one hand sliding up and down his side, ignoring the scars (bullet graze, knife wound, ugly puncture he doesn't like to think about), a slow rhythm like she's petting him. Maybe that is what she's doing. Maybe she's trying to tame him.

"What?" he asks, finally getting his hands back on her, tugging her camisole up, dragging his blunt nails over her skin. 

"You're really fucking hot," she whispers, and Arthur laughs again and then she sits up and her weight lands on his hips and he groans. Ariadne pulls her camisole off and suddenly it's just her skin and her hair falling gently to cover the tips of her small, high breasts, and Arthur understands the urge she had - he just wants to kiss and lick every inch of that smooth, soft skin. There's a brief flash in her eyes, a tightening of her mouth, and he wonders if she's just as shy as he is in her own way, waiting to be judged. So he slides his hands up her sides and palms her breasts and tries to sit up so he can kiss her again, and she meets him halfway. 

This time the kiss has none of the earlier frenzy, just a slow-building heat that seems to flow through him at every point where their skin touches. Ariadne's hips roll against him, with no rhythm but a slow rock forward and back, a slow torture to his cock trapped in his too-snug boxers. She runs her hands down his arms and up his chest and moans softly into his mouth and he can't think of anything more than how badly he wants this, how badly he wants her, how badly he wants to be inside her. He settles for letting his hands roam over her skin, up into her hair to stroke through the fine silk of it, down to her hips to cup her ass and squeeze. Ariadne gives another one of those moans and he can't stand it, he can't wait, he reaches around to fumble at the button of her jeans. This time she laughs.

"Bed?" she asks, sitting up again, and he groans as her weight rolls over his hips. They leave a trail of clothes on the way to her bed, the distance mercifully short in her tiny apartment, and now Arthur is too focused on her to even think about how skinny his legs are, how narrow his hips, how stark his dark hair looks against his pale skin. 

Besides, Ariadne doesn't seem to mind when her legs tangle with his, the hair on her unshaven legs barely a rasp against his calves. She seems grateful for the width of his hips between her thighs as she pulls him down. Her hands slide over his back and down to playfully squeeze at his ass and he bucks against her, sliding through the rough thatch of her mound, and he hisses between his teeth. 

"Please, Arthur," she murmurs, leaning up to close her teeth over his earlobe (his ears are too pointy, they stick out, and the thing she's doing with her tongue is magnificent). He has to hold his breath as he guides himself into her, sinking against her with a long sigh, and she makes a little noise like it's been pushed out of her throat. Arthur twists his hips experimentally, a gentle thrust, and Ariadne makes another one of those satisfied noises and squeezes his ass again. And somehow that's never happened to him before and it feels fucking amazing when she does it, when she squeezes around his cock as well, as she drags him down and pulls him close and kisses his neck. He can't bring himself to talk but he can hear her making noises, gasping out his name, begging for it harder, asking for more. And he can manage to fit a hand between them to rub at her clit, the rough motion making her cry out. He can close his eyes and disappear into a world where it doesn't matter what he looks like, where what matters is Ariadne's skin against his and the slick of their sweat on his chest, his hair starting to plaster itself against his forehead, her fingernails scratching lines down his back, her legs wrapped around his hips, her breasts soft against his chest, her arms tightening as she gasps and as she tightens around him inside, the hot tight wet grip of her cunt around him as he pushes and pushes and pushes and finally, finally surrenders himself to her.

As much as he'd like to stay in that place forever, that moment where he can stop caring about anything but the feel of things, Arthur knows he has to move or he'll slowly smother Ariadne in her brightly colored bedding. So he pulls out, pulls away. But her arm catches him and keeps him close, and he lies down beside her and Ariadne curls up against his side as if it's completely natural and he pulls the sheet over them both. Maybe it is, for her. It's novel to him, the idea that he can just rest, that he doesn't have to get dressed and get out. But Ariadne doesn't seem to mind. Experimentally, he runs his hand down her back, lifting her hair away from where the sweat has stuck it to her skin. She sighs happily.

"Have to tell you something," Ariadne mutters. Arthur cranes his neck a little to try and look at her, but her face is still mashed against his chest. He thinks she might be smiling.

"What?" he asks, barely above a whisper, his hand still stroking slowly over her back. 

"You're gorgeous," she says quietly, muffled a little as she speaks against his skin. "I love your smile and your dimples and your ears. I love your chest. I love your scars and your arms and your cute butt and your long legs and your everything." 

He smiles up at the ceiling. "You think I have a cute butt?"

"Don't push it," Ariadne yawns. "I love you. Go to sleep." 

In the morning he'll wince as he puts on today's clothes, crumpled from their night on the floor. He'll wonder how Ariadne noticed just how uneasy he was, how she puzzled out just the right way to work her way between the seams and strip him bare and make him like it. He'll still be the man who walked into this apartment, who considers a tie a necessary object for everyday life, the man who cloaks and shields himself in layers on layers. But for now, all he needs is Ariadne's arm over his chest, her face tucked against his neck, and the sheet pulled up to cover them both.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for A/A fest, for an anonymous prompt on tumblr: "Arthur is shy about getting naked." Hope you liked it, nonny!


End file.
